I stared at the notecards on my desk like they were written in ancient Greek. Twenty minutes. That's all I had to stand in front of thirty classmates and Professor Hargrove and talk about symbolism in *The Great Gatsby* without my voice cracking or my brain flatlining. I'd already thrown up twice that morning. Public speaking wasn't just hard—it was torture.
Elena found me slumped in the living room, head in my hands. She wore the white tank top she always put on for yoga—thin cotton stretched tight across her chest, the outline of her nipples faintly visible through the fabric when she moved. Her breasts were heavy, round, easily DDs, and the way they shifted when she knelt in front of me made my mouth go dry.
"Hey," she said softly, resting a hand on my knee. "You've got this. We'll practice. I used to do corporate presentations; I know every trick."
I nodded, but my eyes kept drifting to the deep cleavage the tank top barely contained. She noticed—of course she did—but she didn't pull away. Instead she sat on the couch beside me, legs crossed, and started walking me through breathing exercises. Inhale four counts, hold four, exhale eight. Simple. Except every time she demonstrated, her chest rose and fell, the fabric pulling tighter, nipples hardening into little points.
I lost the thread after the second breath. My cock was already thickening in my sweatpants. I shifted, trying to hide it.
Elena paused. "What's wrong?"
"I can't… I can't focus," I muttered. "I'm sorry. It's just—you're…" I gestured helplessly at her chest.
She looked down at herself, then back at me. A slow smile curved her lips—not mocking, but knowing. "You're distracted."
"Yeah."
She leaned closer. The scent of her vanilla body lotion mixed with something warmer, muskier. "That's actually useful. Stage fright is all about your nervous system going into overdrive—heart racing, mind racing. One of the fastest ways to reset it is to overload it with a different sensation. Something intense. Something… pleasurable."
My pulse hammered in my ears. "You're saying…"
"I'm saying if touching me helps you stay calm, then touch me." She took my hand and guided it to her breast. The weight of it filled my palm instantly—soft, warm, yielding. I squeezed gently and felt her nipple pebble harder against my thumb.
A low sound escaped her throat. "Like that. Keep going. Let it ground you."
I couldn't stop. My other hand joined the first, kneading both breasts through the thin cotton. She arched into my touch, lips parting. I tugged the neckline down just enough to bare one dusky nipple. It was thick, erect, begging. I leaned in and took it into my mouth—hot, velvet-soft skin, faint salt taste. She moaned, fingers threading through my hair.
"See?" she whispered. "Your mind is quiet now, isn't it?"
It was. The presentation, the panic—gone. All I could think about was the wet suction of my mouth on her tit, the way her hips rolled subtly against the couch.
She pulled back just enough to peel the tank top over her head. Her breasts spilled free, heavy and flushed. "Stand up," she said.
I did. My sweatpants tented obscenely.
She hooked her fingers in the waistband and tugged them down. My cock sprang out—thick, veined, already leaking at the tip. She wrapped her hand around it, stroking once, slowly, watching my face.
"If we don't get this out of your system," she murmured, "you'll freeze up there tomorrow. You'll go blank. But if you empty everything into me… you'll walk in clear-headed."
I groaned. "Elena…"
She sank to her knees. Her tongue flicked out, catching the bead of precum on my slit. Then she took the head into her mouth—warm, wet, tight. She sucked gently, swirling her tongue under the ridge while her hand pumped the shaft. The wet sounds were loud in the quiet room—slurps, soft pops when she pulled back to breathe.
I gripped her hair. "Fuck—I'm already close."
"Not yet." She stood, shimmying out of her yoga pants. No panties. Her pussy was shaved smooth, lips swollen and glistening. "Living room first. Then we move."
She pushed me onto the couch and straddled me. The heat of her cunt brushed my cock. She reached down, notched the head at her entrance, and sank slowly.
Inch by inch.
Her walls were scorching, slick, gripping like a fist. She moaned as she bottomed out, clit grinding against my pubic bone. "Feel that? All the tension… let it go here."
I thrust up hard. She gasped, breasts bouncing. I caught them, squeezing as I fucked into her—deep, steady strokes that made wet slapping sounds every time our bodies met. Her juices coated my shaft, dripped down my balls.
We stayed like that until she came—shuddering, nails digging into my shoulders, pussy fluttering around me. I didn't stop. I needed more.
She climbed off, legs shaky. "Kitchen. Now."
We barely made it. She bent over the island, ass up, back arched. I stepped behind her and thrust in again—harder this time. The angle let me hit deeper; she cried out, pushing back to meet me. I gripped her hips, watching my cock disappear into her over and over, slick with her cream.
"Harder," she panted. "Fuck me like you need to survive tomorrow."
I did. The counter rattled. Her breasts swung with every slam. I reached around, rubbing her clit in tight circles until she came again—louder, thighs trembling.
"Bedroom," she gasped. "Finish there."
We stumbled down the hall, still connected half the way. In the bedroom she pushed me onto the mattress and rode me reverse—ass facing me, cheeks spreading with every bounce. I watched my cock stretch her open, the pink ring of her pussy gripping me tight.
She leaned forward, hands on my thighs, grinding deep. "Cum for me," she ordered. "All over my face. Mark me so you remember why you're calm tomorrow."
The words snapped something. I flipped her onto her back, pulled out, and stroked myself furiously over her. She opened her mouth, tongue out, eyes locked on mine.
I came hard—thick ropes splashing across her cheeks, lips, tongue. One hit her forehead, another streaked down her chin. She moaned, catching what she could, swallowing greedily.
When the last pulse faded, she licked her lips clean, smiling up at me.
"Feel better?"
I collapsed beside her, heart still racing—but not from fear. "Yeah. A lot."
"Good." She traced a finger through the mess on her face, then sucked it clean. "Now go practice your presentation. You're going to kill it."
And somehow, I knew she was right.